


Battle of the Grounded Dungeon: Season One

by TreepeltA113



Series: Battle of the Grounded Dungeon [1]
Category: Battle of the Grounded Dungeon
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreepeltA113/pseuds/TreepeltA113
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something was born that winter, so many years ago. Molded in fire, chilled in ice, carved of heart and mettle strong. Bonds simultaneously broken and forged, tipping an otherworldly balance and redirecting the very course of fate itself. </p>
<p>A rebellion. </p>
<p>[First installment of the loosely-HTTYD-based roleplay Battle of the Grounded Dungeon.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

“And so the lamb wanders willingly into the den of the wolves.” 

The rangy, graceful figure lounging upon her obsidian throne looked across her darkened throne room, watching a group of figures cross the threshold and approach her slowly. The effect was unsettling as she did not have any visible eyes; her face was almost entirely covered by a white porcelain crescent, horns sweeping upwards to cup around the celestial material drifting upwards from the cavity in her headdress. They were so small, she mused. So insignificant. There were six of them, a huddle of black-and-white robes led by a pale one in green and black with his head held high. The escort was clearly nervous; they turned their hooded heads back and forth, examining the throne room, stealing glances at herself as she waited for them to draw near. She felt their minds flicking frantically like panicked fish, communicating with one another, exploring their surroundings, and H’zola watched them with her mind at a distance, amused. Surely they didn’t think their activity was hidden from her scrutiny.

Lhaugtigg shifted to watch them enter, his chains clinking along the marbled granite. She waited patiently as the group of humans crossed the room, clicking her porcelain claws on her obsidian throne. The procession stopped at the foot of her throne and bowed their heads. She smiled down at them before asking, “And what is a mage doing in our midst?” 

Darien frowned slightly, as the other mages took side glances at him. “You...you were expecting me, weren’t you, your...my…?” He was unsure of how to properly address a demon. He was determined not to let his voice shake in the presence of such a powerful being. He could feel her mind billowing like a thunderhead, a massive force that would have been overwhelming had he tried to pry inside of it, and it only made him all the more nervous.

“Expecting...?” H’zola chuckled to herself. “Oh silly me, it must have slipped my mind. I just have _so_ many important affairs. Our little meeting must have...become lost in the cracks.” She poked around the surface of his thoughts, playing her part as the cat as he struggled in her grasp. “And if you feel as though you need a name to address me by, mortal, you can call me...Empress.” 

“As you wish, Empress.” He gave a small bow at the waist and then bit his lip nervously. Her nonchalant mention of their meeting had made him feel rather insignificant, more so than he did already, at least. And he was quite certain that she had not gleaned his thoughts from his words alone. He wondered for the umpteenth time whether this had been a good idea. 

_No. I need her to guard the prisoners. And nothing antagonistic has arisen between us yet…_

“You need not fret, little mortal. I know you require one of my children to babysit your undesirables.” H’zola could not help but prod his thoughts as she watched him furl his brow. She found the mortals to the South endearing. How naive they were in their petty conflicts. “Your purpose is clear, and you already know I have a wayward child to suit your...purposes.” 

Shuddering, Darien disregarded how open and...unprotected he felt around the Empress. It was yet another reminder of just how out of his element he was among demons. “Then...then the deal is set? Have you no other terms?” 

“You guarantee that she will be forced to live and stay among your captives?” 

“Y-yes, of course.” The conversation grew ever stranger for Darien. Why on earth would she guarantee her daughter’s capture? 

“The terms are agreeable then. Have you brought a contract, or shall I perform one?” The Empress’s pointed teeth glinted, her smile contorting what little was visible of her face. 

“I leave the creation of the contract to you, mighty Empress.” Darien said, bowing again and sweeping his arm while frantically thinking, _Brought? Brought!? Brought a contract? What is she talking about?_

“Then we shall need blood...” H’zola looked to her right. “Lhaugtigg, bring the stones, darling.”

The massive form of the Shepherd lumbered to a small opening in the wall. His whole form shuddered as a collection of libs emerged from the hole in his chest and grabbed two small, pale white, stones. “Thank you, dear.” The Empress leaned forward and kissed him as he deposited the stones in her waiting hands. She stood and walked towards the young mage, her red dress trailing behind her, whispering across the stone floor. The other mages stepped back nervously as she approached. Darien was the only one who held his ground.

“Your blood and my soul are the catalysts that will bind this contract. If you should fail your end of the bargain in keeping my daughter, then your life is forfeit to me. What do you demand if I should fail to deliver Nalaagura?” She pulled out a ruby blade from under her dress as she spoke, the stones sitting greedily in her left hand.

His eyes didn’t leave the stones that rested in her taloned hand. “What do I…” His gaze lifted and he cleared his throat. _It has to be something she’d...something big enough to keep her from breaking her deal._

“If you do not give me your daughter, I require that the service of another demon be provided.” Setting his jaw, he looked the Empress straight in the eye--or lack thereof. “Are we agreed?”

“Really? That’s all? No, no, that’s unfair to you. I could just give you any servant of mine, and you would be none the wiser. How about I create a new one...for you?” The Empress lowered herself so she was level with Darien. He struggled not to retreat from her. 

“Very well.”

Darien extended his left hand, the adrenaline racing through his blood making his fingers tremble. The escort had retreated several steps and stood a ways back, most likely tossing frantic thoughts between the five of them. The Empress clutched Darien’s hand in her own and made a nick on his pointer finger, dripping blood onto the stones. Releasing him, she brought the stones to her face and breathed on them. Her breath illuminated the stones as it made contact. The two stones pulsated as she spoke in daemon tongue the terms of the contract. She put the blade back under her dress and put a stone in each hand. She reached forward with her right, pressing the stone into Darien’s chest. She did the same to herself with her left hand. Darien gritted his teeth as the stone sank bloodlessly into his skin, feeling an intense heat where contact was made before it faded into a gentle itch. Panting, he glanced up at the demon, fingers drifting up to where he knew the contract now resided. 

“We are bound by our words, your blood, and my soul. Now go, I shall have my daughter in your possession in a month’s time. You’d better have the means to contain her.”

“Trust me.” His voice steadied and grew darker. “It will not be a problem.”


	2. Doused Spark

The long, straightforward road to the wintry wastes of the far west was typically a pleasant one to travel, especially in the summer months. There was bright tall scrub grass lining the wide dirt road, and it was a major artery in between the Wilderwest and the tall, shining fortress of High Central; thus it was usually busy and choked with merchants, travelers, bards. The white sun would blaze strongly down across the violet mountains, casting shadows across the fields with broad silvery clouds, often accompanied by a thick breeze that spoke of adventure, wide lands, strange formations to explore, new cities to travel, a touch of magic.

But it was midwinter, and the plains were as dead and gray and cold as the wagon train and its drivers--and prisoners--that crossed it. A constant sheet of heavy rain drummed the road into a slimy mud that clung to each passing wheel. The droplets were intent on dousing the small, quivering torches that each extra guard carried at the head of the wagon, but the ends had been enchanted and as such stayed flickering and snapping, albeit rather uselessly. The backs of each wagon were made of heavy slats of wood, just enough space to allow the rain to pour through and the prisoners could look out on their impossible freedom, breath steaming and curling as though they could vicariously escape with the wisps of warm air. The guards muttered back and forth to themselves, idle chatter about home life, the next orders from the captain, the miserable weather, and mentions of a dungeon grounded, which meant nothing to the weary ears and minds of the trapped.

These were not ordinary captives. That is to say, they were not run-of-the-mill thieves and thugs, bandits and robbers. Not one securely-handcuffed, sopping-wet person trapped in the hellish journey had killed a man or done any wrong worth arrest. Everyone held hostage in the inhumane transports were, to some degree or another, part animal. Half-breeds. Or, if you turned and peered through the eyes of High Central, their supposed protectors and current captors, monsters.

A thin boy with pointed ears, a thick tail and a wolf muzzle curled into his mother’s arms, his tail ending halfway in a mangled stump, tear tracks darkening his fur over his cheeks. He looked to be at least thirteen, and by all accounts should have been trying to act tough and brash as newly-turned teenage boys always do, but he looked as scared as a toddler. His mother’s face was wrinkled with constant snarls and small lacerations. The others in the wagon bore much the same injuries and heavy-heartedness. There were three wagons full of prisoners handcuffed to the wooden slats behind them. They had given up attempting to escape long ago. It had ended in many needless injuries and deaths. Simple rebellion was the only option they had left, for any other choice, any other path led to submission. 

They could not bear the thought.

_“I am a poor wayfaring stranger…”_

The weary, strained voice of a once-sweet songbird quavered through the air, a seeming miracle as it was so choked with rain that any noise made should have been drowned out. But as the young man lifted his head, displaying his dampened sky-blue feathers, dark eyes, black markings and limp crest, it became clear to the other prisoners that he, indeed, was the one singing. 

_“...while trav’ling through this world of woe…”_

Shoulders shaking with cold, he tipped his angled face to the heavens obscured, almond-shaped eyes squinted against the rain dripping through the slats in their confinement, and sighed in a slight birdlike whistle before continuing, _“But there’s no sickness, toil or danger...in that bright land to which I go…”_

“Oi.”

The butt of a spear rapped the top of the crate sharply. There were two guards on each wagon, one to drive, and one to punish. “Stop that racket, bird.”

The blue jay half-breed glared up at him and paused for a minute before singing on. _“I’m goin’ there to see my father--”_

“I said stop!” This time the spear’s head jabbed through the planks, not near enough to prick anyone’s skin, but causing every prisoner that had been mistreated at the soldiers’ hands to flinch and cower. All but the blue jay. He curled his lip in disdain and raised his gaze defiantly to meet the weathered, crow-footed eyes of his captor. _“I’m goin’ there no more to roam…”_

Cursing under his breath, the soldier reached over and yanked on the reins, bringing the two heavyweight Grimler dragons hauling the wagon to a grumbling halt, breath steaming in the frigid air and heads bowed against their constraints. The other carts stopped after rattling a few more feet, guards and prisoners alike looking back to see what the holdup was. “I warned you,” the guard snapped in irritation, hopping down from off the wagon, “if you keep making that gods-forsaken noise, you won’t be making any!” 

But the threat seemed to go right over the man’s head. He’d shifted from looking defiantly at his captor to staring past him, cracking his parched mouth open to keep the verses ringing in the ears of every prisoner who could hear. They were staring at him wide-eyed, ears pricked and tails bushed in alarm and fear, but also in surprised hope. 

_“I’m just a-goin’ over roads, and…”_

The guard gritted his teeth and shoved one of a ring of battered iron keys into the lock, forcing the thick door open and towering over the chained-up prisoners, brandishing his spear. The blue jay stiffened his jaw, the last few notes catching in his throat, and the only sound was an ominous crackle of thunder in the distance and the hissing, rushing rain, like buckets of wet sand rattling against glass. Despite the noise, the silence was deafening. The dripping, dull silver spearhead was hovering a few inches in front of the jay’s nose, and he stared past it, seeming to spot some distant point and becoming fixated on it. 

He took a breath and sang quietly, _“I’m just a-goin’--”_

The half-breeds choked on yelps and screams as the spear suddenly changed direction and embedded itself in the man’s shoulder, the point jutting slightly through the muscles of his back. The man coughed to a halt, black eyes huge with shock. One of the women shrieked sharply as the guard yanked backwards on the spear when he stepped out, throwing dots of blood across the gray wood and worn clothing. The jay toppled out of the back of the wagon at the guard’s feet, gasping and spluttering as the mud splashed into his face. Central’s crest glittered wetly in the gray light as the guard turned his back to the wagon, hefting his spear, preparing to let it fall. 

_“...over…”_

Gravity did its part as the heavy shaft fell through the half-breed’s chest and he rasped out his last word, so quietly that it fell on no one’s ears save his own.

_“...home.”_

The wagon of prisoners gasped in unison and averted their gazes, scrunching up their paws and wrapping their tails around themselves in intense discomfort and grief. The flesh made a sickening noise as the guard withdrew his spear from the corpse and marched back to the wagon, snarling, “What are you all looking at, beasts!?”

The wolf child stared with huge eyes out the back of the cart as the door was slammed shut with a rattle and locked tightly again. The blue jay half-breed was so limp and lifeless and filthy that he could hardly be seen against the road. Lightning forked the clouds and the thunder slammed everyone’s ears again, and the guard hopped up on his front seat, the driver snapped the reins and once again the train began lumbering forward. Silent, tearful eyes watched his shape retreat into the dusky fog of rainwater. An entire rebellion had been left behind in the mud like a worn, used rag. 

What they could never have guessed was that the same hope still lay ahead.


End file.
